


Believing In You

by AbschaumNo1



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grantaire swears a lot in this, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbschaumNo1/pseuds/AbschaumNo1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I believed in nothing; now I believe in you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> I did that thing where I wanted to write a short story for my Creative Writing assignment and it turned into unexpected fanfiction...  
> Inspiration for this was a poem called "Selene's Counterpoint" by Laura Gentile (which I wasn't able to find on the internet so you'll just have to trust me when I say it's great).
> 
> The last two lines are quoted from Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables', translated by Norman Denny.

There’s silence between us and it feels glorious. I really can’t help myself you know? Just being in your presence makes my life a bit better. I had nothing to believe in until I met you. And now…now I have you. If you acknowledge my presence it’s because I agitate you; if you acknowledge my presence it’s because I just told you once again that your activism won’t get you anywhere. Yeah, I know, I’m broken and cynic and I drink too much. I know I should shut up, but you’re just so fucking beautiful when you’re angry.

I’m rambling again, ain’t I?

But to be honest, I don’t care. I don’t fucking care, as long as you’re close. You’re goddamn Apollo come down to earth; a god among mortals. I empty my drink and get the next one. You tried to make me believe in the beginning and it was almost cute. But you soon understood that I’m a lost cause. You can’t help me; I’ve been broken for far too long for that. You gave me something to believe in nonetheless and I can only thank you for that. I believed in nothing; now I believe in you.

Ok, so I said the silence between us is glorious. Let me correct that statement. Every fucking moment in your presence is glorious. I’m addicted to it. Ok, so being addicted to alcohol (and who am I kidding, I _am_ ) is probably enough, but I guess one more addiction won’t kill me.  I’m addicted to you, because you are everything I can believe in. And because you seem to think there’s still a chance for all of us. If there’s one person in the world who could make a difference it would be you. I bet you could do anything; you’re just so fucking perfect. Or maybe I’m biased because I’m addicted.

But addiction or no addiction, truth is you are just so goddamn powerful. People listen to what you say. And if you don’t make an impact immediately that’s only because the people who should listen are dicks and too damn comfortable in their positions. But you know that, don’t you? It’s the reason why you’re never discouraged. Because you actually believe in what you say (it’s also what makes you so powerful) and you would never ever step down as long as there’s still _some_ way to get things to change. When you are knocked down you just get up and there’s that fire in your eyes. Dammit. Do you even know how attractive you are when that happens? I mean to me you’re always Apollo, but that fire… that fire is something else. That fire is not simply Apollo walking among mortals, that fire is the motherfucking sun in our midst.

You know that story about the guy who made wings out of feathers and wax to escape from an island with his father? The one who flew so close to the sun that the wax melted and he lost his wings and fell into the ocean and died? Icarus? Well, I’m Icarus, you know? I’m goddamn Icarus and you’re the goddamn sun. One day I’ll come too close and it will be the end. Or maybe I’ve already been to close and all that’s left is the fall. Maybe I’m already racing towards my end.

Do you wanna know what I did after our first meeting? I painted.  And then I got fucking wasted, because I still couldn’t deal with it. And now I fill sketchbook after sketchbook with your fucking face and your goddamn everything, because hell, you might send me away any time, because I don’t even belong into your group and all I do is mocking you and your ideals. But until then I’ll continue to dream and draw and paint. And I will get drunk on alcohol after getting drunk on your appearance, because it’s too much. You shouldn’t even be possible and it’s fucking rude that you exist anyways.

Dammit, I should stop. But I can’t as long as you are there and run your hand through your blonde curls just for them to fall back into your eyes, blue eyes that can go from cold as ice to lit with passionate fire in a split second. I can’t as long as you don’t tell me to walk away and never show up again (and if you do that me stopping will be final and radical, but let’s not talk about that).

But where was I? Ah, yes, your beauty; your goddamn, motherfucking, awe inspiring and otherworldly beauty. Beauty that I can only try and always fail at depicting in endless numbers of drawings and paintings, my fucking fingers dirty with charcoal and fucking canvases taking up way too much room in my flat (if you can call it a flat). I know it’s not healthy and I know I should stop, but just like with the drinking I can’t. I bet you don’t even understand how much I need you. I bet you don’t even understand what I mean when I say “I believe in you.” I bet you don’t even know how much influence you could have on me; that you would only have to say one word to make me do whatever you want. I already said it wasn’t healthy. Not that there would be anything else to expect from a guy like me.

I don’t know what I would do if you actually noticed me. Not in the usual annoyed way, I mean. Not as the guy in the back who has nothing better to do than attend meetings for a cause he doesn’t even believe in. And I know you do. I know you don’t just see me like that. I know you accept me as part of the group. I know you accept me as a friend; even if it doesn’t always look like it. If you didn’t I would have been sent away a long time ago. But what I mean is a whole different way. Because hands down, this addiction is love.

Yes, I fucking love you. Me, who never thought he would love anyone, has fallen utterly and head over heels in love. And it gets even better: it was love at first sight. How fucking cheesy is that? And to think I could ever stand a chance against your beloved patria. Ha, as if! I haven’t hoped in a long time, and I won’t start it now. Instead I will continue to believe in you and stay in the back with my bottle. Instead I will continue to fill sketchbooks and canvases with pictures of you. Instead I will continue to be the cynic you know, and hoard every moment of attention you give me. I’ll be there when you need me, and if you don’t I’ll be there, too.

_“You believe in nothing.”_

_“I believe in you.”_


	2. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you’re allowed to call me Apollo then I may call you Dionysus.
> 
> There are always two sides to a story.

There’s silence between us and it feels weird. It’s not that I’m not used to you being silent, you are often enough, it’s the sort of silence. I’m used to you sitting there, waiting and listening. I’m used to you contemplating me, or absentmindedly sketching. But I’m not used to this. This, this feels different, more significant. As if you want to tell me something and I don’t get it.

I guess I should start at the beginning; talk about how we met, but you know that already, don’t you? I have this feeling that there is no moment since then that you can’t remember. But I don’t think I ever told you my version of it. I never told you how I saw your eyes for the first time and forgot how to breathe for a split second. I never told you how you fascinated me from the first moment, but disgusted me at the same time (I’m pretty sure the disgust is all you could see back then).

I still don’t get how someone like you can exist. A sceptic. Someone who truly believes in nothing. I still don’t get why you always show up, even though you always emphasise that you don’t support our cause; even though all you do is draw and drink and mock me. I try to keep my calm around you, because I really don’t want you to think all I want to have to do with you is fighting, but you always manage to get under my skin. You manage to tick me off, to say exactly those things that make me furious. I don’t know how you do it, but I know that it would feel wrong if it didn’t happen.

Sometimes I feel like you think I will send you away one day. I’d really like to tell you that I would never do that. You are part of this group and even though you don’t believe in what we’re fighting for you belong to us. You are our friend. You cynicism may agitate me, but your comments also make me see the flaws in what I try to do. If anything you make me better. There are others who support me openly, but you support me by openly not supporting me. It is your very personal brand of support that makes me believe in you.

You don’t give yourself enough credit, I think. You always say that you’re broken, that drinking is all that’s left for you. But we both know that it’s not true, don’t we. You may believe I don’t see it, but I notice the way you look at me. I listen to you when you say you believe in me. I understand that it is a huge thing for you to say. But we both know that you could do more. I have accepted that you don’t believe, but that doesn’t mean I have given up on you.

You are an artist. I know that not because I have seen you sketching; I know that because I have seen what you make. Sometimes you leave scraps of paper behind, with little doodles on them; our friends, you, me. I keep all of them. They mean a lot to me and I wouldn’t want them to go to waste. But you’re not just an artist in that sense. You’re also an artist at living. If I were you, I don’t know if I had the strength to go on as long as you have. I would probably have given up long ago. There’s more to you than being broken. Being broken is part of you, but you’re also strong. You drown your sorrows in alcohol, but you also go on. You dull the pain and continue living. I have to admire you for that, even though I don’t like it.

I heard you comparing me to Apollo once, and I want you to know that, while I’m flattered, I think you overestimate me. I’m not even close to being a god. I have faults. I am too fanatic; I let myself get carried away by my anger. I don’t see how anyone could have anything better to do than work for the cause. I don’t see how anyone couldn’t believe in it. I am too cowardly to show you that I care. I am too focussed on what I believe in to show you how much I value you. I don’t seem to have time for you, seem to be engrossed in my work and too occupied with it to care, even though I do.

If you’re allowed to call me Apollo then I may call you Dionysus. The never caring, always drinking god of wine and festivities fits you. We are opposites, but we trust each other. Just like Apollo leaves his temple with Dionysus I think I can leave our friends with you if I have to. It doesn’t always seem like it, but I know you care about them. They are as much of a family to you as they are to me. You remember how I said you support me by not supporting me, because it makes me see my mistakes? As an artist you probably know the Borghese vase and Apollo and Dionysus picking up the drunken man. It fits that paradox from earlier quite well, I think. You and I we are the gods and my work is the drunk man. You don’t help, but it supports it. Don’t complain now, you were the one who started with the mythology. There are tensions between us, between our very beings and goals, but they are something to live with. They are good for us.

A lot of our relationship is about opposites. We are opposites in many aspects. And I guess it’s these oppositions that draw me towards you. We clash a lot, even though I don’t even want it. We could be destructive towards each other, and I always fear the day when I say the wrong thing; the day on which I say something to you that makes you leave, because I’m too angry; because I fear what it might do to you.  I fear the power I could have over you. And I fear the power you have over me, that distinct talent of yours that makes me flip out and makes the danger of me getting angry enough to hurt you more eminent. But we could be good for each other; I know we could. I’ve been told again and again that I’m too uptight, too focussed on the cause; that I need to relax once in a while. I guess, you could be the one who would actually be able to make me do it, because I care more deeply for you than for anyone else. And maybe…maybe I could help you, too. Maybe I could be the one to help you heal, to help you facing your problems and doing something about it. I would like to be that person.

You are the only person in my life that I have come even remotely close to loving. No. You are the only person in my life that I ever truly loved. I love you, but I fear what it might do to you, what it might do to both of us. I fear giving in to it and at the same time it is all I want to do. I know it 's probably out of character for me, but I really don't know what to do. Because I know you believe in me and I don't want to fuck this up and crush you just because I can't rein my emotions in.

_"Let me sleep here, and if need be, die here."_

_Enjolras looked scornfully at him._

_"Grantaire, you're incapable of believing or thinking or willing or living or dying."_

_"You'll see," said Grantaire gravely. "You'll see."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last four lines are quoted from Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables', translated by Norman Denny.


End file.
